


Sanctity of the Boudoir

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Advent Fic, F/M, and pillow talk, really questionable life choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-05 02:40:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 12,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16802065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: 30 Minute Fics every day from now until Christmas, based entirely around the concept of pillow talk and a randomly generated list of words.





	1. Found

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, between ficathon and Christmas preparation and a case of writer’s block so serious I sent my ficathon prompts to an angel writer, my brain decided that what it needed to do was an advent fic. An advent fic with very specific parameters, for extra fun: a randomly generated list of words, a unifying theme of pillow talk (though I can’t promise all of them will involve pillows. Or talking.), and exactly thirty minutes to write it--once that timer goes off, whatever is done is posted, even if it’s not complete. It's madness, but it's a good exercise at getting out of my current mental rut and embrace imperfections. So here we are, we’ll see how this goes. I can’t possibly imagine how it could go wrong…
> 
> (And if one day's fic is simply "Fuck fuck I have no ideas fuck", don't be surprised)

### Found

* * *

She was awake, far too early to be acceptable and yet far too late to bother going back to sleep. Especially when there was Jack Robinson in her bed. Or his bed? She hadn’t really paid much mind where’d they’d ended up in their bid to escape the Duke. Either way, they were in bed. Together. Both of them still clothed, sadly, Jack in a perfectly respectable pair of button-down pyjamas and Phryne in previous night’s camiknickers. It was, perhaps, understandable under the precise circumstances, but could not be borne for any length of time. Just as soon as they were finished with this investigation they were going to have a proper reunion.

Still, surely he wouldn’t mind a _little_ indulgence. Or, more accurately based on previous observations, a perfectly respectable sized one. She wriggled closer and pressed a kiss against his jaw, then moved to his ear.

“Jack,” she whispered. “I need your help.”

He made a discontented groan.

“Sneaking out already, Miss Fisher?”

“I should,” she agreed, “if we don’t want them to realise I know you. Why did you have to make your persona so respectable? It’s terrible inconvenient.”

“I could hardly expect you to show up now, could I?”

She laughed. “Darling, I think you absolutely should have expected me to show up.”

“Fair enough.”

His smile was barely more than a downturned twitch, but the contentment on his face made it perfectly clear. 

“No, I _should_ go, but I’ve run into a small problem.” Her hand moved to his chest, fingers toying with his buttons but not undoing them, not yet. “I’ve lost something.”

“Dress is over the chair, shoes are under the bed, jewels are on the table nearest the door, I’m trying to sleep,” he said succinctly, the arm sliding around her waist and encouraging her closer undermining his reprimand.

“Helpful,” she hummed, her lips moving onto his throat and her fingers quickly slipping the first button from the buttonhole. “But not what I’m looking for.”

His shirt was quickly undone and she allowed her hands roam against him. His skin was warm, soft, the muscles working beneath her fingers even as he was still--the rise and fall of his chest, a twitch when her fingers found a sensitive spot.

“Can you describe the object?” he asked, playing along.

“Well, that’s the difficult thing, inspector,” she purred. “I’ve never actually seen it.”

“Then how do you know it’s yours?”

“A woman just knows these things,” she said, her hand drifting lower. “I believe it’s been mine for quite some time, even if I wasn’t ready to possess it. It’s been kept under very good care by a very careful man.”

“Sounds like a foolish thing for him to do. What if he were to decide to keep it for himself?”

She pretended to think as she unknotted the tie at his waist.

“It was a risk, of course, but I had faith.”

Her fingers trailed down the hair running from his navel, beneath the waistband, finding first the scratch of curls and then the warm silkiness she sought. She grasped it gently, stroking it until it began to harden. Felt him shift his hips, lowering the trousers, exposing himself. Felt tears prick her eyes. She kissed his neck again, burying her nose against his shoulder and breathing him in.

“Found it.”


	2. Well-groomed

### Well-groomed

* * *

Barbers are in short supply when you’re travelling the world at the behest of a lady detective, but Phryne finds that she doesn’t mind a bit of scruff against her thighs or the tangle of her fingers in longer hair. She adores his tongue on her breast and his cock in her cunt and the exquisite sensation of falling--into pleasure, into love, into an entire life that she never expected. Longs for this Jack, less careful, less cautious. Wilder. Untamed. When they touch, when they kiss, when they fuck… she is all sensation; decadent, delightful sensation, the sort she has spent years pursuing, and she doesn’t pay any heed to the details.

Still, when they return to Melbourne and three piece suits and pomaded hair and the full forceful restraint of Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, and she beds him for the first time… in the aftermath of that momentous occasion, when she’s running her fingers through the soft hairs at the nape of his neck and contemplating just how long it had taken them to get there, she tells him there’s a razor set aside for the morning. There was something to be said about a well-groomed man, after all. 


	3. Applaud

### Applaud

* * *

Jack was in bed, a well-read book in his hands and a glass of whisky on his bedside table, deeply content with his lot. Good literature, good scotch, and all the time in the world to indulge in both. He had nowhere to be the next morning, or the next afternoon for that matter. 

There was a click at the window and he tensed--not even a night of indulgence could break old habits. Deliberately turning a page, his eyes no longer following the words as he listened intently--silence at first, but then a subtle glide of the window against the sash, a whisper of cloth, the sound of feet hitting the floor. He had to give her credit, she was very nearly silent.

“Congratulations, Miss Fisher,” he said. “Shall I give you a round of applause?”

She gave an irritated huff, and he set the book aside and turned to look at her. She was, as always, positively resplendent. She was also slightly vexed.

“I expected you to be asleep, Jack,” she said. “And your neighbour’s light was on, so I could hardly come through the front door. She might have called the police!”

He hid his laughter with a twitch of his lips, though her narrowed eyes told him it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“So the solution was to… break in through the window?” he asked, then glanced at the watch next to his whiskey. “It’s three in the morning.”

“I did say I expected you to be asleep,” she countered, tossing her beret absently onto a chair and beginning to unbutton her blouse.

“Should I ask where you were?” He paused. “Actually, on second thought I’d rather just know what you’d learnt. And why you felt you needed to break into my bedroom to tell me.”

“I had a lead,” she said, bending over to remove her shoes and then her trousers. “Which led nowhere, unfortunately. We’ll have to speak with the housekeeper again.”

She straightened, wearing nothing save silver camiknickers that seemed to glow in the lamplight. He imagined the feel of them, silky and warm beneath his hand; he imagined that was her intention.

“Tomorrow is my day off,” he reminded her, arching an eyebrow. 

She gave a wicked grin, her gaze sweeping over his own half-dressed body.

“I know,” she said, climbing into the bed beside him. “That’s why I wanted to be here in the morning.”


	4. Clumsy

### Clumsy

* * *

“Fuck, that’s cold,” Jack said, shutting the door of the cottage behind them and rubbing his hands together briskly. His teeth chattered. “Remind me to never trust your suggestions of a romantic walk.”

“It’s not like  _ I _ was the one who chased a burglar into the river, Jack, this can hardly be laid at my feet,” Phryne replied primly, the wind-chapped red of her cheeks and clumsy fingers as she unbuttoned her coat rather belying the assertion. She hadn’t gone into the water like he had, but she’d certainly gotten damp as she’d pulled him out. 

Jack quickly shed as many wet layers as he could, laying them over the back of a chair before moving to help Phryne with her clothes. His fingers fumbled over the tiny buttons of her blouse, and when they brushed against her breast she gave a loud hiss and jumped back.

“You’re freezing!” she exclaimed. “Get into bed before you catch your death of hypothermia.”

As he couldn’t properly feel his fingers, it seemed far more likely than he would have liked, and he didn’t quarrel. Heading towards the other room, a bone-deep cold filled him, bringing to mind memories of trenches a decade or more in the past. He climbed beneath the covers of the bed, shivering violently, the sound of Phryne moving around in the other room the only thing that kept the memories at bay. 

A few minutes later, Phryne came into the bedroom, carrying spare blankets, a hot water bottle, and a look of determination. 

“Move over,” she directed, laying the blankets atop him and then stripping out of her still damp clothes. “I’m pleased to see I don’t have to undress you, at least. I half expected to find you in pyjamas.”

He gave a rueful smile.

“Didn’t think of it,” he admitted, doubting he had the dexterity for it if he had.

Rolling her eyes, she slipped into the bed beside him, pressing her body against his; she was cold, though not as cold as him, and he went to pull away.

“You’re not dying on my watch, Jack,” she said, voice firm as she draped herself further across him. He rolled his eyes.

“I’m hardly dying, Miss Fisher, don’t exaggerate.”

She cuddled against his shoulder, her breath on his chest scalding hot and welcome, her hands running against his stomach and leaving a trail of sensation.

“Not now,” she agreed. “But I was deeply concerned when you couldn’t get my clothes off.”


	5. Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine my utter delight when RositaLG's advent fic also featured an adoring blowjob today. 'Tis the season, apparently. ♥

### Park

* * *

It turned out that even a surprisingly spacious London townhouse did not have enough space for four adults when one of them was Henry Fisher. Phryne had seriously considered decamping to a hotel, but it was the holiday season and her mother had pleaded with her to stay just for another few days, and Jack had shrugged as if to make it clear he would follow her lead on the matter. Which was endearing, but did result in her continued frustration when Henry interrupted every damn intimate moment they’d managed to spare. Tonight, however, tonight was the absolute limit.

“A Christmas party!” Margaret had declared, paying no heed to Phryne’s objections, and so they found themselves--Jack in a tuxedo and Phryne in a purple beaded gown that was extravagant even by her standards--utterly unable to act on the palpable desire.

It was a goddamn miracle the tree in the corner hadn’t been set alight by residual heat.

Phryne made it through dinner, after dinner drinks, and a round of charades before she snapped. She set herself on course to intercept Jack, murmured instructions to come to the coach house with a hand on his forearm, and left. 

Her father’s motorcar was his pride and joy, custom-made and the height of luxury. It was a ridiculous indulgence from a ridiculous man. It was  _ also  _ the location of the evening’s entertainments. She slipped inside, carefully shimmying out of her knickers and coming to rest on her knees on the plush floor of the back seat. There was plenty of room, and nobody would notice her. 

Well, nobody but Jack. He joined her shortly, cupping her head in his hand and kissing her with months of pent-up intent. 

“Sit,” she encouraged, motioning towards the seat and her hands already scrambling at his waistband to release the braces.

“Phryne….”

“I’ll be quick,” she said. “Promise.”

His lips twitched.

“First time I’ve heard that,” he remarked, and the smile she flashed him for his cheek was broad and delighted.

She was as good as her word, and within a few moments he was panting and straining and trying rather desperately not to spill himself into her mouth; she hummed and performed a particularly clever motion with her tongue and he lost the battle. 

She swallowed and released him, pressing a kiss to his softening cock as she tucked it away once more, then looked up at him. A single bead of sweat had gathered at his hairline and his cheeks were flushed, and she adored him. Deeply.

He caught her looking, because he took her hand and tugged her up onto the seat beside him with a growled “Miss Fisher” that sent a bolt of desire through her. His kisses were no less adamant in the aftermath of his pleasure, and his roaming hands soon found the edge of her gown and slipped beneath it. He’d just buried his hand between her thighs and begun the slow, teasing climb to her pleasure when a noise made them both freeze.

It was another guest, clearly drunk and even more clearly confused how she’d ended up in the garage. Jack pulled his hand away with alarming speed, eliciting a surprisingly desperate whine from Phryne, and then a heavy sigh. He was right, damnit, but she didn’t have to like it. 

“We’re getting a hotel room,” she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek before straightening her gown and preparing to play hostess. “First thing tomorrow.”


	6. Nutritious

### Nutritious

* * *

Phryne traced his lips with the pad of her thumb, skimming over the deep philtrum and lingering at the corners where his secret smiles lurked. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, a tiny glimpse of pink that caused a flutter of desire in her chest.

“You have a beautiful mouth,” she remarked. “And it is very adroit in the methods of pleasure.”

He arched an eyebrow and she shrugged.

“And what methods, precisely, would those be?” he asked.

She hummed, the picture of innocence; she suspected it would goad him exactly how she’d like, as if he needed the encouragement.

“All that lovely poetry you quote,” she said. “The lovely little expressions people don’t see, but I can read so easily. Your lovely kisses...”

“Is that all?”

She cocked her head as if thinking.

“Well, your prodigious appetite is certainly not a _fault_.”

“Ah,” he said. “Nobody could fail to appreciate the nutritional or culinary benefits of Mr. Butler’s cooking. It’s hardly an exceptional talent.”

He looked far too satisfied with his own cleverness, and she rolled her eyes. If that’s how he was going to play it…

“Well,” she said, “Shakespeare did say that appetite grows by what it is fed on. And I know how much you like Shakespeare.”

He laughed.

“Subtle, Miss Fisher,” he said fondly, rolling her onto her back and beginning to kiss down her sternum. “I believe he also said something about making hungry where most she satisfies?”

She pulled her fingers into his hair and encouraged his head lower.

“Best to choose your diet wisely, then,” she purred, gasping slightly when his tongue met her clit.

He growled, sending a soft vibration against her.

“I think you’ll find my diet is to both our satisfaction.”

And as he set to work with enthusiasm, she decided it very much was. 


	7. Nondescript

### Nondescript

* * *

“What was your first impression of me?”

Jack cracked open one eye to see Phryne watching him, head propped up on one arm and a look of unrestrained curiosity in her eyes. Which had, admittedly, been incredibly endearing for the first six hours, but he had in fact been travelling all day and was tired even before the first round of lovemaking. And the second. The third and fourth had somewhat blurred together, and now he was trying to sleep.

“You wouldn’t like the answer,” he said, hoping she’d get the hint.

“Try me.”

“Phryne…”

She pouted. Actually _pouted_. And the worst part was that she didn’t seem to be doing it on purpose, which meant it was endearing once more. Exasperating woman.

“I thought you were a terrible actress, for starters,” he said. “‘A woman alone’, Miss Fisher? Does that ever work on men?”

“More often than you’d believe, Jack. You were remarkably resistant.”

He huffed.

“I thought you were beautiful, of course, but before you ask I was not overcome with a desire to tear your clothes from your body and have my wicked way with you in the midst of my crime scene.”

She _cackled_ , nearly losing her balance as she did so, and Jack found himself laughing too. 

“I don’t believe you!”

He shrugged. “Believe me or not, your appearance was of more investigative interest than carnal.”

“So my impression that you were an obstreperous, nondescript man…?”

“Probably accurate, in all honesty.”

She traced a hand along his collarbone, smiling softly.

“And yet here we are.”

“We are.”

“And you are quite possibly the most attractive man in my acquaintance.”

“Thanks to your influence?” he teased, uncertain where this was going.

She seemed to consider the question.

“No,” she finally said, her eyes boring into his even as her hand drifted down his chest to rest over his heart. “I think I just learnt how to see you better.”

Pulling her down atop him, he kissed her thoroughly, felt her body beginning to move against his in a way that was already familiar. They might very well have taken it further if they hadn’t parted to catch their breath, only to have him yawn. Phryne began to laugh again, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.

“I don’t want to sleep,” she admitted against his neck, pressing sweet, hot kisses against it. “I keep expecting you to disappear.”

“I’m here,” he said, understanding the impulse. “In the bed of the most attractive woman of my acquaintance, deliriously happy, deliriously tired, and with no intention of being anywhere else until she tires of me.”

She nipped his neck instead of replying, then reluctantly slid off his body and into the crook of his arm. They were both silent for a moment, the weight of their confessions between them. They knew, and there would be time to for more later. For now, this was enough.

“Good night, Jack,” she finally said, her hand stroking his skin in a soothing motion.

“Good night, Phryne,” he said sleepily. “And no matter how beautiful you are, I’m still not fucking you at a crime scene.”


	8. Roll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Seldarius for pointing out "Roll in the hay" is probably sexier than bread products.

### Roll

* * *

Going for a ride on her aunt’s horses had been Phryne’s idea; disappearing into the hayloft for a rather enthusiastic round of sex had been Jack’s. Which had seemed like an utterly marvelous idea, especially when his hands could not stay off her derriere as he muttered about riding breeches and boots and _even the hat, Phryne_ , but was in practice an absolute nightmare. Hay was prickly. And prone to sticking. And the scent of it was pleasant, but not terribly erotic. _And_ the loft wasn’t tall enough to rut against the wall, so they were stuck with the hay. Not that she was going to let a little discomfort get in the way of debauchery with her inspector, and when he put his mouth on her she forgot her objections entirely.

Still, it was not an event she was eager to repeat. Or at least it wasn’t, until she looked down at Jack, his face red from exertion and his hair sticking every which way and a glint in his eyes.

“I’ve wanted to do that since I was sixteen,” he admitted.

“Oh?”

It hardly seemed his sort of fantasy, but he was full of surprises.

“Mhmm,” he said. “We were visiting my cousins for the summer, and they had both a barn and a pretty neighbour by the name of Emma Lawson. The entire thing was irresistible for my youthful imagination, but nothing ever happened.” He paused. “Or rather, I suspect something _did_ happen and it was with my older brother, but he had the decency not to brag about it afterwards.”

“You poor dear,” Phryne said dryly. “Did it live up to your expectations?”

He shrugged, and a hand reached up to tuck her hair gently behind her ear; his fingers lingered on her cheek as he met her eyes. 

“ _You_ exceed my every expectation, Miss Fisher.”

Well, then. On further reflection, this had been a brilliant idea. She brushed the pieces of hay from his hair softly, kissing him as she did.

“Were there any other youthful indiscretions you failed to have, Jack?” she asked, nuzzling her nose against his and teasing his lips with her tongue. “I’m sure I could accommodate.” 


	9. Side

### Side

* * *

“You’re cross with me,” she said unnecessarily, removing her earrings and trying not to look into the mirror to watch the man on her bed.

He gave what she could only describe as a petulant huff, even though he tried to hide it. “Yes.”

In a way, she had expected this to be the hardest part of a relationship--the little quarrels and negotiations that weren’t always straightforward--but… it wasn’t. People disagreed. Sometimes strenuously. Hell, she’d had arguments with Mac that would turn the air blue and it had never shaken the bedrock of their friendship. And so this was easy. Not pleasant, but there was no doubt between them, no half-truths or evasiveness.

“Will you tell me why?”

She began to remove the evening’s makeup, giving him time to formulate an answer. He didn’t need it.

“You called my boss incompetent to his wife’s face, Phryne.”

Ahh, yes. Well, technically his wife had said it and Phryne had merely concurred with her assessment, but she suspected Jack wasn’t in the mood to mark the distinction. She wiped the kohl from her eyes.

“He’s trying to work you out of the job, Jack. Incompetent was probably the nicest thing I could have said about it, and now Elle’s going to put a bug in his ear about that nonsense.”

“I was dealing with it, Miss Fisher. It’s why I went to the damned gala in the first place.”

“And here I thought it was because you cleaned up so nicely.”

He snorted.

“The relative merits of my appearance weren’t the primary motivation of the evening, no.”

Rather than reply immediately, Phryne turned slightly to present her back.

“Could you do the buttons?”

Grumbling, Jack stood and crossed the few steps to Phryne’s table. His eyes met hers in the mirror, and his knuckles brushed against her back as he unfastened her dress. He looked aggravated, yes, but worse was that he looked hurt.

“We’re on the same side, Jack,” she said quietly. “And when the chief commissioner is working you eighteen hours a day in the hopes that you’ll quit, or at least quit working with me… that’s not just on your shoulders.”

His fingers slid over her shoulder, nudging the gown down her arm.

“I don’t need to be managed,” he said. “I didn’t need it from my wife, and I certainly don’t…”

He paused, seemingly uncertain of what he meant to say and surprised by what he already had.

“Need it from your partner?” Phryne supplied, reading between the lines. “Could it be, perhaps, that my actions--however well-intended--poked at an issue that is sensitive for reasons unrelated to us?”

“A little, yes.”

She stood, allowing the gown to slip to the floor, and turned to face him, looping her arms around his shoulders and looking at him imploringly.

"Ahh, and if I were to be sufficiently contrite--and I _am_ sorry, Jack--is there a possibility of my forgiveness?”

He shook his head, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes in the most endearing way as he stroked her hair.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Phryne,” he said. “Though perhaps next time we coordinate our plans of attack? Seeing as how we’re on the same side and all.”

She kissed him softly.

“I think that can be arranged. But I still think he's incompetent.”


	10. Adjoining

### Adjoining

* * *

Jack heard the sound of the door clicking open, then the rustle of a silk robe. He tried to hide his smile, though he suspected it would be visible even in the little light that snuck around an improperly pulled curtain. 

“Your aunt will have a fit,” he said quietly, shifting over on the bed to make room for the body that slipped in beside him.

“She wouldn’t have given us adjoining rooms if she objected,” Phryne replied.

“Adjoining with a locked door, Miss Fisher, and no key in sight.”

“You checked?”

She sounded genuinely surprised, and he snorted.

“I’m restrained, Miss Fisher, not dead. Of course I checked.”

“Well, either way,” she huffed, one hand sliding down the front of his pyjamas, “she knows my proclivity for lockpicking, she can’t have been serious in her intents.”

Jack considered it for a moment, and concluded she was very likely right. Prudence Stanley was not one to overlook so obvious an action, which meant that she approved. Or at least did not actively disapprove, which was practically the same thing.

“Have you come to ravish me?” he teased.

“No.”

“Don’t tell me the indomitable Miss Fisher was _lonely_ , then?”

“Not a chance,” Phryne replied, insinuating herself further around him. “I would never become dependent on someone else for something as important as sleeping arrangements. Not even someone as comfortable as you.”

Which was the closest he expected she would ever come to admitting that she _liked_ sharing a bed with him. He could live with that. 

“Why, then?”

“I suspect that our thief will be making an appearance in here any moment now, and I would hate to miss him. Or her, I suppose.”

“And what makes you think that he--or she--has any intention of breaking into my bedroom?”

Her voice took on the high-pitched innocence he knew meant he wouldn’t like what was coming next. “Because I made a point at dinner to mention that the latch of my jewelry box had broken, darling, and that you had allowed me to secure them in your safe instead? And then I implied that neither of us would be in the room.”

He huffed. “I was looking forward to sleeping, Miss Fisher.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” she said sweetly in reply.

There was a sound outside the door, and they both tensed.

“You take the right,” Phryne murmured. “And be careful.”

Jack rolled out of bed and crouched down. He glanced up to find Phryne on the opposite side of the bed in a similar position; she really was exceptionally beautiful, with sleep-mussed hair and a keenness in her eyes.

“You’re a menace,” he whispered across the bed. “This is precisely the reason I always pack my handcuffs.”

“Well,” she responded with a shrug, “one of them, at least.”

They exchanged a laden look, then the turn of the door handle drew their attention. Jack had to hand it to her--she did make his life far more interesting. And he’d never been one for sleep anyway.


	11. Vessel

### Vessel

* * *

Phryne ran her hands through Jack’s hair, twisting the locks around his fingers as she looked down at his head resting on her chest.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said.

“Sounds dangerous.”

She smiled. “About going home.”

They’d carefully ignored the imminent end of his leave. She knew he’d follow her anywhere if she asked, damn the consequences, but that was a burden she did not wish to bear. And she missed home; the people and the rhythms were more domestic than she had ever imagined suiting her, but she could have both.

“I think we should take a boat,” she said.

“A boat?”

“Mhmm. I’ve been thinking about it. I doubt the plane could make it as she stands.”

“She’s been through a lot,” Jack agreed, humming a little as Phryne continued toying with his hair.

“And a boat has advantages. More room for our luggage, more free time… There’s one that leaves for Melbourne on Tuesday, if you’d like.”

“Mmm,” he said sleepily, “I can see it now. The regal Miss Fisher, vessel more throne than chariot gleaming gold in the sunlight.”

Her brow furrowed slightly; he seemed far too content with the idea, which could only mean--

"Purple sails,” he continued, “that smell of French perfume.”

Oh, _Antony and Cleopatra._ Phryne rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jack,” she said, unable to obscure the fondness in her voice; he took it as encouragement, opening his eyes and rolling onto his stomach before tracing a path along her chest with his tongue. He murmured words against her skin, kissed and scraped his teeth against her until she shivered, his lovely voice teasing as it rolled over her.

“The winds will be lovesick, the Nile before stretched before us, the vessel propelled by silver oars--”

“Jack!” she laughed, wriggling slightly as his mouth found a ticklish spot.

“Flutes will keep the stroke, of course.”

“JACK!”

He began to laugh, a deep chuckle that echoed in her own body.

“Let Rome in Tiber melt!” he proclaimed, his kisses trailing southward. “Here is my place!”

“That’s not even the same scene!” she giggled. “I’m trying to be serious, Jack.”

His kisses faltered as he laughed, but he continued his attempt.

“Oh, this orient pearl,” he murmured, nudging her legs wider as he slid between them. “If this is love indeed--”

“Jack Robinson, don’t you _dare_!”

She grabbed the nearest pillow and chucked it at his head, collapsing against the bed, still giggling. He surged up, kissed her, their smiles too wide to make it more than the crashing of lips.

“Tuesday, boat, home,” he agreed. “Now, whatever shall we do to pass the time until then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack is quoting, badly, Antony and Cleopatra. Most Act 2, Scene ii:
> 
> The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,  
> Burn'd on the water: the poop was beaten gold;  
> Purple the sails, and so perfumed that  
> The winds were love-sick with them: the oars were silver,  
> Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made  
> The water which they beat to follow faster,  
> As amorous of their strokes. 
> 
> But mostly he's being a giant and questionably accurate dork. This idea probably would have gone better if I'd had time to research this properly, because my memory for quotes and context is notoriously terrible.


	12. Pour

### Pour

* * *

More often than not, Jack spent their nights together at Wardlow--the warmth and food and whiskey couldn’t be beat, and he would quite happily sing the praises of Mr Butler to anyone who would listen. But on occasion, for whatever reason, they instead spent the night in his cottage. And while he would never admit it to Phryne, those were some of his favourite nights.

It wasn’t the domesticity of it, or at least not exclusively; his home had been, for many years, a place where he did not have to be anyone but himself and even the tightest knots of self-control slackened. It had been a necessity that eventually became a comforting routine, and no matter how much he loved the chaos of Phryne’s home he still craved it some nights. And the first time Phryne had slept over, because he’d offered to cook dinner while Mr Butler was away and it had been pouring with rain when it as time for her to leave, he’d expected her presence to be an intrusion--he loved her, of course he did, but she was still a _guest_. Except… it hadn’t been. She’d slipped into his home with the same ease as she’d slipped into his life and beneath his skin, and he cherished it.

“What are you thinking about?” she murmured sleepily.

He blinked, looked down at where she lay sprawled beside him, as indulgent in his bed as she was in her own. The grey light of morning peeked around the curtains, and on the tin roof the rain pattered relentlessly.

“The first time you stayed the night,” he answered truthfully.

The corners of her lips curved at the memory.

“I think about it every time it rains,” she said.

He snorted; it had been a long week of erratic weather. “I doubt that, Miss Fisher. You’d barely have a chance to think of anything else.”

“Well, maybe just every time it rains like _that_ ,” she conceded, cracking an eye open and giving him a smile. “I always suspected you had sybaritic tendencies--your appetite suggested it, if nothing else--but you exceeded even my expectations.”

He nodded, trying not to laugh. She made him happy, sometimes obscenely so, just by… being there. Here. In his life, in his bed…

“You know, Miss Fisher,” he said, running one hand against the exposed skin of her bared back. “It’s raining.”

“It is,” she agreed, then smirked. “And I suspect it will still be raining in six hours when we’re both awake. Go back to sleep, darling.”

Kissing her temple, he lay back down and felt her snuggle closer, her body warm and soft against his; it was an indulgence he would never grow tired off, and he drifted back to sleep, the rain a lullaby. 

Yes, the times she stayed the night with him were amongst his favourites, and he wasn’t intending to apologise.


	13. Agonizing

### Agonising

* * *

The first thing Jack was aware of was that every part of his body was in agony. The second was that, courtesy of what was no doubt an obscene amount of drugs, he didn’t particularly care. He opened his eyes, the room swimming slightly as he turned his head. Phryne was in a chair next to him, her arms folded across her chest and a mulish expression on her face. Not happy with him, then, but he found he didn’t care; she was there, and that was enough.

“Rejoining us in the land of the living, are we?” she asked. “It’s about time. I’ve been sat here for hours.”

"Funnily,” he croaked; his mouth was far too dry, “I’m no happier about this than you are.”

“I’m not here to play nursemaid,” she said, still mulish, and poured him a glass of water. “But apparently not even Mac could convince the higher powers you needed observation.”

She shoved the glass towards him roughly; he took it with a shaking hand, his fingers brushing against the back of her hand as he did. It was warm, and soft, and not quite as steady as he’d expected. He wisely said nothing, just sipped the water and felt some of the cotton-mouthed feeling dissipate. Phryne had turned away from his as soon as he’d taken the glass, fiddling with items on the bedside table absently.

“What were you thinking, Jack?” she finally said, and the anger in her voice had disappeared in favour of sadness. It was so much worse. “Going in there without backup?”

“You would have done the same.”

She snorted.

“Most likely.”

“I didn’t have time to wait, Phryne,” he said; the events were blurred by drugs, but he was certain enough of that.

“You’re damned lucky Bert and Cec saw you skulking around,” she said, still not looking at him.

“What happened?”

She hesitated for a moment.

“They were… beating you, Jack. A copper on their territory needed to be taught a lesson. And then they shot you when they heard the cavalry arriving.” That explained quite a bit. She continued talking, the words tumbling out of her mouth awkwardly. “Thankfully they had terrible aim. But when I heard that gunshot, Jack….” her voice broke, and Jack reached out to grab her wrist.

“Come here,” he said, tugging her gently towards the bed.

She came, reluctantly, eyes still down; he suspected he’d feel differently when the medication wore off, but at the moment her reaction seemed worse than the physical injuries.

“I’m alive,” he said.

“This time.”

He tugged her hand again, shifted in the bed so there was room beside him.

“This time is what we have,” he said. “And maybe next time it’s you. Maybe next time there’s a better shot. Maybe next time…” She slid onto the mattress, carefully arranging herself so that she didn’t press against his injuries, as he continued, “Maybe next time, we don’t have this. But we do today.”

She huffed, her body relaxing slightly.

"I thought you were supposed to be the one that worried,” she said.

“I am. I do. I very likely will, when the drugs wear off. But right now…” her face had turned towards him, and he met her eyes, giving her a small smile, “Right now I have you.”


	14. Fallacious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set sometime... late season 2, I guess? This was supposed to be a completely different plot.

### Fallacious

* * *

“So, Mr. Fisher, was your wedding night everything you’ve dreamt of and more?” Phryne asked from her side of the bed.

Eyes focused stubbornly on the ceiling, Jack groaned and wondered, precisely, how he’d come to find himself in this predicament. Except, of course, that he _knew_ precisely how he’d come to find himself in this predicament. Which was, in short, an out of town witness, a stubborn private investigator, the world’s tiniest hotel, and one room left. Phryne had entered the hotel and secured the damned thing before he could voice his protest, and he could hardly sleep in the motorcar after _that_. And so he found himself Jack Fisher, newly married and trying desperately not to look at his ostensible wife. Hearing her remove her outer clothes had conjured more than enough images, he didn’t need the real ones insinuating themselves into his subconscious. He’d never fucking survive, for starters.

Still, he couldn’t let her have all the fun.

“Well, my darling Mrs. Fisher, it’s hardly the height of romance, but with my beloved by my side, anything is bearable,” he said, aiming for overly lovesick and ending more at pompous.

Beside him, Phryne giggled.

“I am sorry about this, Jack,” she said, sincere and warm.

“What have I said about apologising?”

“Well, this is hardly my fault, so I thought it might be safe enough. Preferable to apologising for things actually under my control, at least.”

He turned to look at her without thinking; she’d pulled the blankets over her shoulder, leaving her as respectable as possible. Her hair was mussed and her eyes were laughing, and for just a moment he forgot how to breathe.

He’d forgotten the intimacy of sharing a bed. Forgotten how much he’d missed it when Rosie had left. Forgotten how easy it was to love someone when outer shells were stripped away. And he suspected that it meant little to Phryne, who shared her bed more easily than she shared other parts of herself and likely had not even considered the implications of their charade--there was a problem and she had a solution, and why shouldn’t she resolve it?--but it meant something to him.

He just had to hope that she never figured it out.


	15. Kitty

###  **Kitty**

* * *

He was watching her from the bed, a soft look in his eyes.

“What is it, Jack?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

The man could be a stone-faced enigma, but he was also a terrible liar when it came to her. Honestly. She removed her gown, tossing it onto the floor, and met his eyes.

“Nothing, Jack?”

She slid her hand down her neck to her cream-coloured silk chemise, over a breast, across her stomach; he watched her with hungry eyes.

“Just contemplating your more feline qualities,” he said.

She smirked.

“Well, isn’t that sweet,” she purred, slinking across the room and up the bed, biting her lip. “And what sort of feline am I, Jack? A tigress? A panther?” She had crawled up his body, and brushed her lips against his. “I’ve always found lions particularly appealing, I will admit…”

“I was thinking more of an alley cat,” he smirked.

She rocked back on her haunches, doing her best to look offended.

“Jack!”

“Tough as nails, _fiercely_ territorial and--” he nodded towards the discarded dress on the floor, “--prone to marking her territory--”

She moved closer and bit his shoulder, then scratched her nails up his torso.

“Definitely territorial,” she agreed, moving her lips to his ear. “But don’t think you’re getting away with this.”

“Impossible to keep out but immensely useful to have around,” he continued his litany of feline traits, ignoring her reprimand completely even if his body didn’t, “fond of napping.” His hand brushed her hair from her face, smiling softly. “Not quite a wild thing, but impossible to tame.”

“Oh,” she breathed; damn him, really, for knowing how to disarm her so well.

She kissed him, fierce and hungry and more than a little territorial.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Jack Robinson,” she panted as she pulled away to remove her chemise, “I might be an alleycat, but so are you.”

His lips twitched in amusement, his pupils blown wide; utterly hers and utterly his own.

“Meow,” he said as he pulled her close once more. 


	16. Absurd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of [Chapter 5: Park](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16802065/chapters/39437572)

###  **Absurd**

* * *

It was almost impressive that Jack could come halfway around the globe only to have all attempts at advancing his relationship with Phryne _still_ thwarted by obnoxious relatives and obligations. The incident in the car the night before had been delightful, if over embarrassingly quickly and _damnit_ he’d wanted to see her come undone as well, but it wasn’t actually why he’d come after her. Thankfully, Phryne seemed to find the whole thing as absurd as he did and had set her mind on a solution.

Which was how he woke up before sunrise to find an irate Phryne Fisher tossing his clothes into a suitcase.

“Miss Fisher?”

All previous attempts at sneaking into bedrooms had been thwarted by Henry Fisher in the adjacent room, still attempting to return himself to Margaret’s good graces and apparently possessing the ears of a fox.

“Morning, Jack!”

“What--?”

“Did you know that every hotel of an acceptable standard within the London area is full?” she said conversationally. “The holidays, you know.”

He wasn’t quite certain what to say to that, so he settled on a groggy, “Ahh.”

“Thankfully I have an old friend--and before you ask, _don’t_ \--who has decided that London winters are dire and has fled to the south of France, but is happy to lend us his townhouse. So now we simply have to make our escape before my parents wake up.”

He sat up, rubbing his eyes and glancing around the room. She had managed to upend most of his belongings into the cases, seemingly paying little heed to such things as order or proper packing methods.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked, wincing as a drawer full of socks were poured into the suitcase. “We’re both adults, they can hardly stop us.”

“You’ve never seen my mother when she sets her mind to something,” Phryne glowered darkly.

He arched an eyebrow. “Is she as persuasive as her daughter?”

“Don’t try to flatter me, Jack,” she said. “Get packing.”

“You seem to have that task well in hand,” he pointed out, and when she levelled a look at him he raised his hands in assent. “I’ll get dressed.”

And, somehow, he was not the least bit surprised to discover that the first time he was fully naked in front of Phryne Fisher had nothing--well, very little--to do with sex. He swapped his pyjamas for trousers and jumper and helped Phryne secure the bags. Then he stopped, put a hand on her waist to encourage her closer, and kissed her softly, grateful just to be there.

She reached up to stroke his cheek, smiling at him in a way that said everything. However absurd this was, they were in it together. She kissed him again, then pulled away with a grimace.

“Quick, grab the bags and out the window,” she said, “I’m pretty sure I just heard my father.”


	17. Charge

###  **Charge**

* * *

“The local sergeant wants to press charges.” The room was dark, the hour late, the distance between them palpable; a hand breached the divide, lacing fingers through fingers and squeezing softly. They would be alright. “Luckily for you, I’ve spoken with the Wilkes and they’ve chosen to look the other way.”

“All’s well that ends well, then.”

A snort.

“I wouldn’t say that! What were you thinking?”

Indignant was apparently not a desirable tone for this chastisement, because the response was immediate and curt.

“That the evidence we needed was clearly visible through the open window, to begin with! And the Wilkes ought to thank me--heaven only knows what would have happened to them if we hadn’t arrested the butler.”

Which was exactly why they’d agreed to look the other way on the break-in, though it had required considerable and unpleasant persuasion.

“Perhaps, but breaking into the house of a family receiving death threats was… foolish, even for you.”

“I hope you’re not implying I’m reckless?”

“Oh no,” came the dry reply. “I would _never_.”

“Then I fail to see the problem.”

“You are the most obstinate.... Elliot Wilkes could have _shot_ you! **_I_ ** could have shot you!”

“In my defense, I hardly knew that you were sleeping in the next room. If I had, I’d have left it in your no doubt more careful hands.”

Phryne gave an exasperated sigh.

“Jack Robinson, I love you. Dearly. But I’m really beginning to think I need to get you back to Melbourne before you _actually_ get yourself arrested.”


	18. Seed

###  **Seed**

* * *

“I have a question,” said Phryne, chin in her hand as she stretched out over his bed, watching him change out of his rough work clothes. “Why did you begin gardening?”

Jack blinked, then shook his head.

“Your curiosity is insatiable, Miss Fisher,” he said, turning to give her a small smile. “Perhaps if you hadn’t lazed in bed all morning and joined me, I’d be inclined to tell you.”

“Jack!” she laughed. “I think you know how unlikely that is. Though the view might have been worth it.”

“Only might?”

“Too early to say.”

He chuckled, then sighed. Still dressed in undershirt and trousers, he came over to sit in the bed and looked at his folded hands.

"Do you actually want to know?” he asked.

“Always,” she said, utterly sincere. “But only if you want to share.”

Though it was surprising, and perhaps shouldn’t have been, he found he very much did. 

“My parents,” he said. “After my father died… I was 14 and angry at the world, and my mother would send me out to weed the garden. I thought it was punishment, but I think… the garden had always been something they’d worked on together, and I don’t think she could face it alone.” He shook his head. “I should have realised.”

“You were a child, Jack,” she said, her voice a mixture of dryness and absolution. “One who had just lost his father. I believe you can be forgiven for a lack of insight on the matter.”

“Perhaps. Either way, the anger was channeled into pulling weeds and… it helped. Gave me a place to use that frustration, and I felt closer to my father when I did. I used to talk to him, in my head. Which sounds silly--”

“Not at all,” she said, sitting up and moving close to wrap her arms around him from behind. “But carry on.”

“There’s not much to it after that, really. By the time the spring came around, I was ready to plant the seeds. Grow something new. So I poured over my father’s books and learnt as much as I could. The first year’s harvest was… pitiful, actually,” he chuckled at the memory. “But I learnt from my mistakes and I tried new things, and eventually I had a garden that would have made Da proud.”

“I wonder what he would think of it now,” Phryne mused, pressing a kiss against his shoulder.

“Probably that that many flowers and so few veg is a waste of good land,” Jack chuckled. “He was far more interested in practicalities.”

Her felt the curve of her smile against her back, then felt her hesitate.

“What made you switch to flowers?” she finally asked.

“Rosie.”

“Oh?” 

One of the many reasons he loved her was that it was a genuinely interested query, no pettiness or irritation at the life he’d once had. So he explained, reaching up to clasp her hands in his. 

“Our little marital home was so pitiful, compared to what she’d grown up with, but I could make it beautiful. We could make it beautiful. Which lasted about six months before I was shipped off to war. She kept it going while I was gone, and when I came back…” his jaw twitched. “I was angry, again. I fell into old habits and she gave it a wide berth, and… in hindsight, that was the beginning of the end.”

“But you still garden.”

“I do.”

“Because you’re angry?”

“Sometimes. And sometimes because I find the rhythms soothing and it needs to be done, or because I miss my father, or because I  _ like _ to create beautiful things. And sometimes,” he turned his head and kissed her, “sometimes it’s simply because it makes lady detectives curious.” 

“Ahh,” she smiled. “Well, you’ve convinced me. Next time I’ll join you.”

He arched an eyebrow in surprise and she laughed.

“Well, I’ll make coffee and eat breakfast while I watch you, at the very least.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, this is the first time I've really suffered through the agonies of the time restriction. This came out way more rushed and metaphor-heavy than I'd intended. My plan for Christmas Day fic is to write for an hour, but I was pretty sure there'd be pitchforks if I'd posted angst on Christmas.


	19. Paint

###  **Paint**

* * *

Phryne slipped from behind her dressing screen to find Jack studying a painting on the wall, face unreadable. She padded nearer, wrapping her arms around his waist; he jumped at her touch, clearly lost in his thoughts.

“Penny for them,” she murmured against his ear.

“I’m just marvelling in my newfound appreciation for art,” he said dryly.

Liar. She nuzzled his neck.

“Does it bother you?” she asked.

“That you modelled?”

She nodded.

“Not at all,” Jack replied, managing to sound surprised. “I was just wondering what she was like.”

“What I was like,” Phryne corrected. Paris might feel a lifetime away, but it had still been her and she had no interest in denying it. “And very much the same, in essence.” She looked at the painting, the memories coming to the forefront. “Less money, less confidence, but stubborn and resourceful and  _ terribly _ hedonistic.”

He turned in her arms, a small smile playing on his lips.

“That does sound like you,” he said, fingering the edge of her robe. “Beautiful, too.”

Phryne rolled her eyes.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Jack.”

“What about hedonism?”

“It has potential,” she cooed playfully, then glanced at the painting again, a sense of melancholy falling over her. “I really was terribly young.”

“And yet you survived,” he said, reading her mood and pressing kisses against her neck in an attempt to lighten it, “and continued to be a stubborn, resourceful hedonist.”

She rolled her eyes, but exposed her neck for easier access. His touch really was terribly compelling.

“Perhaps I should put it away,” she mused.

“Don’t you dare,” Jack replied, voice gruff, as he guided her towards the bed, kissing her all the while. “I like being reminded of how far you’ve come. And so should you.”

“Then perhaps you should persuade me,” she laughed, and he did. 


	20. Attend

###  **Attend**

* * *

Jack traced a line up and down the curve of Phryne’s side, admiring the smooth expanse of her back before him, trying to brace himself for the conversation ahead.

“What is it, Jack?” she asked, still facing away from him, and he rolled his eyes internally. Of course she could read him like an open book; it was wonderful, usually, but damned inconvenient under the circumstances.

“I need a favour,” he said.

“That sounds… ominous.”

“Do you have plans for this Saturday night?”

“Not particularly, why?”

“Has Dot mentioned that it’s the Fireman and Policeman’s ball?”

Phryne rolled over and gave him a conspiratorial smirk.

“Don’t breathe a word, but I believe she was letting out her dress and muttering about twins running in the family.”

Jack chuckled. “That would explain a lot.”

“Why do you ask?”

He cleared his throat. “I need you to attend. With me.”

She tilted her head in curiosity. “You hate the ball.”

“Yes.”

“But you’re going?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” she asked, then paused, her brow furrowing in that way that meant she’d been presented with a particularly challenging question. “No, Let me see if I can figure it out. You are attending, which means… you’re required to be there.” He nodded. “But if it was for a case, you wouldn’t think twice... so it must be more personal.” Another nod. “If it was for one of your men, Hugh for example, you… oh! You’re getting an award!”

He coughed. “Not--”

“Do you need me to rescue you from the ceremony?” she teased. “Fake a faint, perhaps? I would suggest you’re hoping my ability to find a murder would loom, but I think that’s too much even for you.”

“No fainting required,” he said solemnly.

“If you want me to celebrate with you, Jack, you only need to ask. There’s no need for this subterfuge.”

“The award is for you!” he blurted.

Her face lit up in delight.

“But that’s wonderful, darling!” she said. Then he saw the penny drop. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

He coughed again.

“It’s in recognition of the incident with the terrier.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I solve dozens of murders, and the police force decides that _finding a missing dog_ is the reason to acknowledge my contributions? And you’re asking me to go along with this farce?”

“I wouldn’t, I swear, except--”

“Except that declining it will no doubt offend the commissioner, owner of the erstwhile terrier, and then he’ll come down on you with the fury of a man scorned.”

She was quick, at least. Jack gave a smile that was more grimace than joy.

“And that will very likely include our working arrangements. I don’t expect the special constable trick will work a second time.”

“Oh.”

He loved his job, but he hated the politics. And now her delight had morphed to disappointment and it _killed_ him to have played a part in it.

“If you don’t want to go--” he began.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’ll go,” she said quietly.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “Next time your aunt holds one of her dinners, I won’t so much as think about complaining, or I’ll--”

“Jack,” she said firmly, “you don’t need to do that. I know…” she leant in and kissed him softly. “I already have a badge for my meritorious service to the force that means more than any official recognition from the stuffed shirts in charge,” she gave him a look that was both loving and filthy, “ but if you were inclined to express your appreciation again, I can think of a few options…”


	21. Flagrant

###  **Flagrant**

* * *

Phryne flopped dramatically onto the pillows, still panting. Christ, that had been… something. Intense. Unexpected. Incredible. Beside her, Jack huffed; she rolled onto her side to look at him, sweaty and red-faced and _present_.

“You could have mentioned you were invited to the dinner, Jack,” she said, trying to hide her delight at the discovery.

“It was a last minute request,” he explained. “Your aunt said something about a discreet police presence, but I suspect that was an excuse. I doubt she would have held it on your birthday if she’d realised you’d made other plans--she’s not quite so unyielding as she lets on.”

Phryne nodded in agreement. “Well, you certainly weren’t discreet, at any rate.”

“Pardon?”

“You were a flagrant flirt the entire meal!” Phryne accused playfully; there’d been several times she’d thought she might combust beneath the heat of his gaze, the seductive promise in his eyes, the words that has caressed her skin.

“You’re one to talk, Miss Fisher,” he replied. “Need I remind you of a certain delicate foot that ended up on my lap during the first course?”

"I lost my shoe, I was looking for it,” she said innocently, and his eyes narrowed.

“In my trousers?”

“Well, there was certainly _something_ of interest in there.”

“Yes,” he said dryly. “And you found it repeatedly. I nearly choked on my soup!”

She slid a hand around his waist, feeling the heat radiating from it. “Would you like me to apologise?”

“Not for the foot.”

“Oh?”

"Admit it, Miss Fisher, the asparagus was a bit much, even for you.”

She chuckled. “Well, a bit of well-placed Shakespeare from you certainly put the suggestion into play. I can hardly be held responsible for running with it.”

“You used your teeth!”

“Yes, you did look a tad… perturbed by that.”

“I was trying valiantly not to come in my trousers, actually. I’m not certain a napkin in my lap would have done much good at that point.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Sincerely?”

“Sincerely.”

Well, that made her feel slightly better about how tightly she’d clenched her thighs together during the main course; he hadn’t even been particularly sexual at the moment, just speaking to another guest about her valuable contributions to the investigation and she’d remembered the case. And the aftermath. It had been… memorable. She’d worn the bruises for days, to Jack’s consternation and her delight.

“I believe you more than returned the favour during the dancing,” she said, aiming for teasing but rather breathless at the memory of his splayed fingers on her back dipping beneath the low back of the gown; she’d worn it to be scandalous and was delightfully scandalised instead.

He coughed. “Well, consider it my birthday gift.”

Laughing, she rolled closer to press kisses to his shoulder.

“If that’s my birthday present,” she said, “I can’t wait to find out what you got me for Christmas.”


	22. Toad

###  **Toad**

* * *

They were still entangled, their hearts still beating quickly, their skin still flushed from exertion, but the mood had shifted so entirely. Contemplative and easy and simply curious; it was so wonderfully familiar, and Phryne was glad to see that things hadn’t changed between them, merely expanded. 

“Why Phryne?” Jack asked idly, his hand skimming over her skin so tenderly. Reverently.

“Hmm?”

“I was just thinking… Why were you named Phryne? Having met your father, it hardly seems the likely choice.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Do you plan to introduce my father to the boudoir often?”

He made a little choking noise, and Phryne tried to hide her smile.

“My mother,” she explained dryly, taking some mercy. “She called me Phryne Calliope, insisting that it was--and I quote-- ‘a lovely name fit for the aristocracy to which we belong regardless of how much money we do or do not possess.’ I’ve never quite been able to tell if it was aspirational or she was in denial of how low she’d sunk in marrying my father.”

“Ahh.”

“Naturally, some little snot down the road managed to find out that it means ‘toad’ courtesy of what might have been the only book in all of Collingwood, and that lasted for years.” Phryne rolled her eyes. 

“Charming.”

“Very,” Phryne agreed. “When I was nine, I beat Colin O’Leary with my bare fists until he begged for mercy, and that put an end to that.”

He looked vaguely impressed.

“A pure Collingwood girl.”

“To my mother’s chagrin,” she said. “But I suppose it could have been worse. Mother wanted to call Janey Antigone, but I threw such a fit and refused to call her anything but Janey. Mother would insist it was a nickname, but Janey was on her birth certificate.” She huffed a small laugh. “It’s funny, every time Mother would call her Antigone, she’d crinkle her nose ever-so-slightly. I hadn’t thought about that in years.”

“Ahh,” he said, hand stilling. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“Raise the spectre of my sister?”

His lips twisted. “Yes.”

“Don’t be, then,” she said. “You are… one of the few people I can talk to about her. There’s Mac, of course, and a few other friends from back then. But…” she reached out and tucked a lock of hair off his forehead, “I never have to explain with you, and I can just remember her. Never apologise for giving me that.”

He flushed awkwardly. “ I was just… curious, about you. Your name. It suits you.”

“Are you calling me a toad, Jack?” she challenged teasingly.

“And what if I was?” he parried.

She pushed him onto his back and came to straddle his hips. 

“I’ve got better moves than I did when I was nine,” she said, teasing his lips with her tongue. “But you’ll still be begging for mercy.”


	23. Careless

###  **Careless**

* * *

Jack walked back into the bedroom, running a towel over his hair. Phryne was dozing on the bed, but opened an eye when he entered.

“Shower’s free,” he said. 

“Mmm, in a minute,” she said. “Come here.”

He crossed the room and sat beside her on the bed. She sat up, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him softly. 

“That was a lovely way to wake up,” she said, smiling against his lips.

“Yes, your vocal appreciation made that rather clear,” he replied dryly, and she laughed. 

“Cheeky.”

“Only with you, Miss Fisher.”

She kissed him again, her touch as soft as it had been frantic moments before. Then her stomach grumbled and they both laughed.

“Make breakfast?” she requested. “I need to clean up.”

He nodded. “Omelette?”

“Mhmm,” she hummed. 

Jack kissed her a final time before quickly dressing in trousers and a jumper and heading towards the kitchen. He was in the hall when there was a knock at the door. He glanced at the clock in surprise; it was quite early for guests on a Sunday morning, but with Miss Fisher around he shouldn’t be particularly surprised. He opened the door to find a constable on the other side and groaned.

“Morning.”

“Good morning,” said the constable, clearly working from some internal script. “There has been--” he looked up for the first time and did a visual doubletake that would do Hugh proud. “Wait, aren’t you Inspector Robinson?” 

“I am,” Jack said. “It’s Evans, isn’t it? I believe we met over the Hopkins case.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said proudly. “Is everything alright here?”

“Yes? Why? Is there something going on?” Jack asked, glancing down the street for signs of a disturbance.

“We had a report, sir,” Evans said. “Of a woman screaming at this address.”

Well fuck.

“No, no,” Jack said hurriedly, trying desperately not to blush. “Nothing amiss here.”

“Right, sir. Only… would you mind terribly if I came in and confirmed it?”

Which was exactly the right thing to do, and under literally  _ any other circumstance _ Jack would commend him for his dutifulness. But as there was a very reasonable chance of Phryne emerging, still naked, from his bedroom at any moment, he was not thinking about the quality of the man’s policework.

“I’d rather you--”

“Jack?” Phryne called out.

Jack clenched his jaw and stepped aside to let Evans in.

“Just the police, Miss Fisher.”

Phryne emerged from the bedroom, fully dressed. Small mercies.

“A case?” she asked, then her eyes lit up when she saw the other man. “Why, it’s Constable Evans! Good morning. How’s the missus?”

“She’s well,” Evans said. “Says the bub is attempting to ensure she never sleeps again.”

“I have heard that,” Phryne said, managing to feign enthusiasm for a matter Jack knew she cared little about. “Whatever are you doing here?”

Jack coughed.

“A neighbour reported screaming, apparently,” he said, trying not die on the spot when he saw realisation dawn on her face.

She dealt with it with great aplomb, smiling angelically. 

“Yes, I’m afraid that was me, constable,” she said. “There was…” she faltered. “Well, it’s all dealt with now.”

“And you’re well?” Evans asked. “We could step outside, if you prefer.”

Good instincts, still green. Jack would have to speak with his inspector, give the boy a bit of gentle direction. 

“I’m fine, truly,” Phryne said. “The only thing wrong with me is a need for breakfast. I’m afraid I was over here obscenely early this morning. The inspector and I are working on a case and some information was brought to my attention, and I stormed over here to share it without stopping to eat. Time sensitive, you know.”

Evans nodded. “Well, if you’re certain--”

“I am,” Phryne said, coming close to gently lead Evans out the door; Jack had to give her credit, she did it so smoothly Evans didn’t seem to realise he was moving until he was on the other side of the door. “Thank you so much for your diligence, constable. Have a lovely day.”

And then she shut the door and turned to Jack, clearly trying not to laugh.

“We really should be more careful,” she said. “Tea?”


	24. Love

###  **Love**

* * *

“I love when you do that,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow in amusement, something else clearly coming to mind, and he chuckled.

“That too,” he said, reaching across the bed to lay a hand on her hip, “but I meant when you laugh.”

“When I… laugh,” she said slowly.

“Mhmm. You are…” he tried to put it in words, “the most joyful person I know, but you don’t laugh often. You smile and your _eyes_ laugh and your amusement comes through in your voice, but you rarely truly laugh.”

She seemed to think this over, a furrow forming in her brow. That hadn’t been his intention.

“Nevermind me, I’m being ridiculous,” he said, and smirked. “We can always discuss that other thing.”

She tried to hide a smile.

“No, I think you’re right. Funny, I’ve never really noticed. Father used to complain terribly about my laugh--said it made me sound like a mate at the pub.”

"And so you stopped?”

“Surely you know me better than that, Jack,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I laughed all the more.”

That did sound more like her. Her face grew sombre after a moment though.

“Then Janey… it seemed impossible to laugh, after that, but I had this silly notion that if I didn’t she’d never find her way home. So I did and Father hated it more than ever. It was more weapon than mirth at times. And then we moved to England and I was informed that well-bred young ladies did not laugh like **_that_** , and I was having a hard enough time proving myself more than a scrappy kid from Collingwood. I suppose I got out of the habit.”

He reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, trailing his fingers down her cheek when he was done. He remembered the first time he’d heard her laugh, _really_ laugh, on the stage as he’d dared her to uncover his secrets, the openness in her that had so easily turned him to Shakespeare. _Hungry where most she satisfies_ , indeed.

“And what about you?” she asked. “What terrible tragedy stole that lovely, rich laughter from your repertoire?”

The war, the job, a failing marriage. Nothing particularly unexpected; he’d just stopped having a reason to.

“I suppose I got out of the habit,” he replied.

“Well, we can’t be having that,” she said, leaning towards him and dropping her voice as if conveying some great secret. “I’ll tell you what, Jack. I’ll practice if you do.”

He laughed.


	25. Astonishing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Day, so have a double-writing-time fic. ♥ And happy holidays to all who celebrate, and Merry Phracksmut to those who don't!
> 
> A followup fic to [Park](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16802065/chapters/39437572) and [Absurd](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16802065/chapters/39801120)\--short summary is that Jack has arrived in London and the cockblocking has continued. So Phryne intervenes, first by a blowjob in a car that is rudely interrupted, and then by escaping out the window with Jack to spend some time at a friend's empty townhouse. Which is where we pick up...

###  **Astonishing**

* * *

They were barely inside the townhouse when Jack glanced down the hall.

“Staff?”

“Off for the holidays,” Phryne assured him.

“Still,” he said, a feral smile on the corner of his lips, “I’d better make this quick. Just in case.”

He set the valise aside and pressed her against the front door with astonishing confidence, trailing fiery kisses down her neck, her chest, her stomach, sinking to his knees as he unfastened her trousers, eased them down her thighs, paused for a moment as if to relish it.

“Fast,” she goaded him, fingers tugging lightly as his hair; days and weeks and months of waiting leaving her desperate for his touch and promising to explode.

She didn’t need to say it twice. Pushing the silk of her lingerie aside, he dove into her cunt with an enthusiasm that soon had her gasping and moaning and scrabbling frantically against the door in a bid to keep upright despite the molten fire pouring through her. She wanted him deeper, parted her legs, found the trousers kept her thighs tighter than she wanted, gave a desperate half-sob in frustration. He laughed against her, the vibrations sending her over the first precipice, her nails digging into her palm, felt his fingers--his clever, wicked fingers--lowering the restraining fabric, skirting the inside of her thigh, pushing deep inside her. She made another noise as she came a second time, still riding the aftershocks of her first, not a moan but not a scream, a sound of pure wanton pleasure. Felt her knees buckle, her legs trembling, the solidity of the door behind her and Jack’s body before her keeping her upright; his kisses slowed, his finger slipped from her and she gave a keening sigh.

He stood up; she looked at him, seeing him anew. Hair unpomaded in their bid for a quick escape, his eyes hungry and dark, his lips glistening as he licked them; she reached out and stroked his cheek, not quite trusting her voice yet. His eyes drifted shut at her touch, transforming his features. Her Jack.

“Come upstairs,” she said softly, “and make love to me.”

She could read the teasing retort cross his face-- _Was that not enough, Miss Fisher?_ \--but he gave it no voice, merely took her hand and followed her up the stairs. They reached the bedroom--a guest bedroom, she assured him lightly--and she realised her hands were trembling as she undressed him. She could blame it on the climaxes, the illicit thrill of undoing her staid inspector after so long, but she knew the truth. She was terrified.

Not of him. Or them. Or love in general, really. But of how deeply she felt. Any number of men had brought her pleasure, their bodies a transient mutual worship. That was familiar. This… this was not. She was off the edge of the map, on the edge of a journey that might alter her forever.

She couldn’t wait.

*

He’d seen many sides of Phryne Fisher, but none of them had prepared him for _this_. The tenderness with which she undressed him, the gentle brush of hands and lips and tongue against his skin, the murmured words of adoration; he returned the gestures, astonished by the warmth of her skin and the confidence of his voice as he told her the truths both of them knew. Astonished by how the heat of her as he joined her fully for the first time felt like coming home, of how she rose and fell above him like an inexorable wave, how easily this came, how good they were together.

_Make love to me_ , she’d requested; he hadn’t realised how deeply she meant it until they were in the aftermath, his hands still trembling as he continued to touch her, marvelling that she was real. This was real. And he could blame it on the exertion, on the years that had lapsed since he’d last been intimate with a woman, but he knew the truth. He was terrified.

Not of her. Or them. Or love in general, really. But of how deeply he felt. How much he wanted, how quickly he could lose it. He’d held himself apart for so long, determined to guard his battered heart, never noticing how it had healed years before.

“You came after me,” she whispered, awe tingeing her voice, breaking his melancholic reflections.

“I did,” he said, kissing her again. It was a vow, a freedom, a pleasure. “I would. I will.”

He was off the edge of the map; no certainty, no promises, just a journey that would alter him forever.

He couldn’t wait.


	26. Jellyfish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boxing Day Bonus--Awhile back I saw a prompt on Tumblr: "Would you still fuck me if I was a jellyfish?" and it tickled me immensely, so I wrote a very quick, very brief Phrack version of it. So this was probably written in half an hour or thereabouts, and so fits the spirit of this challenge and I'm using it for my Boxing Day fic.

Phryne was, it had to be said, very, very drunk. She sprawled on the bed, eyes on the ceiling as if that would keep the room from spinning. Somewhere to the left she heard her companion undressing. She raised a hand and waved it airily, captivated by the gossamer wing of her dress in the lamp light.

“Would you still fuck me if I was a jellyfish?” she asked idly.

“Which species?” Jack replied.

She giggled, turning her head slightly to watch him unknot the bowtie.

“A man-of-war, of course.”

“Then no.”

“Is there a species you would say yes to, then?”

He tilted his head as if considering the question, then slid his braces off his shoulder. “No, most likely not.”

“Shame. I think it sounds rather marvelous. All...” she swooped her hand, watching her dress flutter once more, “marvelous.”

He rolled his eyes, finishing undressing and then crossing over to the bed. He gestured for her to move over, then pulled the covers over them both. She gave a contented sigh and cuddled against his shoulder.

“I’d fuck you if you were a jellyfish,” she said, then giggled again. “A jackyfish.”

“Good night, Miss Fisher.”


	27. Selfish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One final bonus--upon starting this exercise, I told myself I could have three "do-overs", mostly to account for potential interruptions, but also in case things were truly terrible. I used two of them--I wrote a piece that wasn't finished in 30 minutes, thought another thirty minutes to make it a Christmas day fic was all I needed, and after that thirty minutes hated it immensely. But this has been an exercise in transparency, and so I post it as a bonus all the same.

###  **Selfish**

* * *

“Phryne?”

She lifted up her head, turning it to face Jack. He was looking… thoughtful. She groaned and dropped her face to her pillow.

“Can this wait?” she muttered into it. “You’ve only just arrived.”

He scoffed.

“Six hours ago, all of which has been spent in your bed.”

Talking. Touching. Making love. All of which were fucking delightful developments, in Phryne’s opinion, but of course he was incapable of turning off his curiosity.

“Precisely. Brilliant idea. Now sleepy. Talk later.”

His hand reached out to touch her arm, his voice softly pleading. “Please.”

Still grumbling, she pulled herself upright. Hopefully he never realised how much power a simple please could have over her. Though it only did because she suspected he’d never use it if he had.

“What dreadful thought has furrowed your brow, inspector?” she asked dramatically, willing to have this conversation but not intending to make it easy. She was genuinely tired.

He rolled his eyes.

“I wanted to talk to you about…” he cleared his throat, “your--well, your…”

Poor man. She took pity on him. Well, a little.

“You want to know if there has been anyone since Melbourne?”

He nodded, something akin to a blush spreading to the tips of his ears. Which was oddly sweet.

“Will it make a difference if there has?” she asked.

“I’d like to know,” he said, “but no.”

Which was really the only answer that was both believable and acceptable.

“No.”

“No?”

He was trying so hard to be liberal-minded, but the bloom of hopefulness in his voice was impossible to miss. She found herself wanting to kiss him. Again.

“As it happens, wrangling my father was a full-time occupation.”

“You’ve been in London for weeks,” he pointed out.

“I have. I’ve met some charming men, but I haven’t been… tempted.”

“Why not?”

It was her turn to roll her eyes. “Because, Jack, I was aware of your opinions on my parade of men _before_ you drunkenly informed me of it.”

“That didn’t stop you before,” he pointed out, miraculously managing to do so without accusation; she still winced.

“Yes, well, Compton and I were… well, more importantly you and I _weren’t_ , and it felt like we never would be. Whereas now...” she sighed, lifting her eyes to meet his. She wanted no doubts in this. “Before I invited you to dinner, I questioned what we… might look like, moving forward. I suspected monogamy was the only option for you, but there are alternatives. And I believe telling myself that was to offer myself a way to escape.”

His jaw tightened and his hand clenched into a fist; she knew how rare so transparent a display was, and she hated to have been the one to cause it.

“Escape. Me,” he muttered. “That’s… wonderful.”

“That’s not what I meant!” she exclaimed.

He arched an eyebrow as if challenging her to go on. Right, well, she could hardly back down now. Best to have it out, now, and hope he would understand.

“I had spent so much time telling myself that I would never consider a relationship like--well, like the one we have. It is… intensely intimate, and to add monogamy to it was…” she gave an aggravated sigh, and reached out to hold his hand; his fist loosened and she laced her fingers through his to give a soft squeeze. “It was terrifying, Jack. I was--I had changed, and I never realised when. For someone who prides herself on self-knowledge, that was…”

“Terrifying.”

“Yes. And while I do not have a habit of shying away from things that scare, I think I can be forgiven for eyeing the exits. But it’s not the same thing, Jack.”

“The same as what?”

“Then and now. I know… I told myself that being with you did not have to be an exclusive arrangement, even if I knew it would be.” He clearly was not following her, which could hardly be unexpected given how terribly muddled she’d been up to this point. She sighed.

“The truth is, Jack, I’m a very selfish woman. But I would never demand something from a lover I would not be willing to give myself, and I have found myself in the rather complicated position of not wanting to share _you_ with anyone else. And that… that was not part of my initial considerations.”

“Ahh.”

“So no, there have been no entertaining diversions in this bed. Not because I am trying to spare your sensitive feelings, but because I am trying to spare mine.” She gave a small smile and shrugged, trying to ignore the strange ache in her chest. “As I said, selfish.”

He smiled back at her, and the ache eased. He understood, at least enough.

“I would rather have you, Phryne, selfishness and all. Whatever that means.”

The air between them shifted in an instant, the heaviness replaced by the returning joy of their reunion. They would find their path. Somehow.

“You know,” she smirked, deliberately looking down her body, “I can think of another way I’m selfish…”

“Again, Miss Fisher?” he asked, mock-exasperated as he moved his lips to her neck and began to kiss downward. “You’re positively insatiable.”

“I am, Jack, I really, truly am.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Tale of Two Idiots](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17875646) by [deedeeinfj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deedeeinfj/pseuds/deedeeinfj)




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